


heat and sand

by thnderchld



Series: heat and sand [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angels, Angst, M/M, and i will write drabbles for this series don’t u worry ur pretty lil heads, and multiple chapters, god i want to write more for this AU, it’s the thing i talked about before and its gay, people with bird wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thnderchld/pseuds/thnderchld
Summary: In a world where ‘angels’, or Icareans, co-exist with humans, Zuko has been forced into shame for the crime of being born with wings. However, after being kicked out of his home, he finds himself mixed up in the ragtag life of an unashamed Icarean named Jet and his family of misfit children. But, amidst this home, Zuko is haunted by thoughts of an uncle, and the life that wants him back.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revolutionfeuilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionfeuilly/gifts).



> For my wonderful friends, Theo (histcries . tumblr) and Em/Johnny (angryjerkandstrawboy . tumblr), the people who stayed. For you, who have waited. For you, who keep this ship and this world alive. Thank you to all the people who have listened to me wax on, and who fell in love with the rebel and the firebender.

 

 

 

_Icarean: noun. A descendant of the first winged ones who fell to earth, resembling Humans (p.34) with wings. Have evolved to fit into multiple subspecies of Icarean, named after their resemblance to certain species. Most suffer from Pedibal Hyperthermia, and cannot touch the dry earth without intervention of clothes._

 

_Centuries of interbreeding with humans led to a dilution of the blood, and their genes can run in the most unsuspecting of humans._

 

 

**i.**

The city was cold and ruthless against Zuko’s skin. The place beneath his shoulders burned like something ungodly, undressed and probably festering with infection. He gasped against the city streets, his fingers squeezing into fists as he watched the people pass around him. Some of them were human and some of them were Icarean. They didn’t know what he was, just that he’d been wounded. Well, that was obvious. Blood ran down his back, in massive rivers of red. His father had… dumped him, he realised. Abandoned, finally. He wondered how it had taken so long.

He lacked the ability to walk, his hands and knees stained with greasy sewer water. He dragged himself off the path and onto the front step of a house. He rested his head against the door frame and turned so his back pressed against the door. He felt his blood seeping through his shirt into the wood, but Zuko couldn’t bring himself to care.

He pulled his feet out of his shoes and pressed them to the hard rock. He felt the aching of his ancestors, that faint burning sensation that ran through his body as a constant reminder of where he came from. But was this not the sensation that had been used against him? Against his face? He held himself, focused on the cloth of his shirt against his fingers.

“What are you doing?” He looked up, and saw an elderly woman with a cane, an Icarean. Her wings were large and ungainly, ruffled with age. Her skin was an old and stony grey. “Get out, boy. You’re staining my wood.” She tapped his heel gently with her walking cane. “And get your feet in your shoes. You’ll get scars.”

He looked up at her, and she didn’t notice the scar on his face. She was just focused on getting inside. Finally Zuko got to his feet, dusting off his knees. The flames seemed to shoot through his feet, and he made his way off the property, leaving his shoes out of spite.

Zuko wandered through the city streets, his feet turned red with blisters, dribbling ichor onto the street. He could barely see anything in his wave of agony, and he often had to lean into a wall to stabilise himself. He glanced up and saw some people flying. “Isn’t that illegal?” he muttered, but he couldn’t care.

There was a public pool a few metres away, and he finally pulled himself into the showers. He turned on the water and stood beneath the heated droplets. Zuko couldn’t bring himself to look at the red swirling around his feet. It had been ten minutes before someone slammed their fist on the door. “Get out! I get we all have needs, but do it somewhere else, okay?!”

He ignored them, picked up a piece of flannel and rubbed it over his back. Zuko looked at the mirror across from him. He started to turn, stopped, and then continued. He could barely see the carnage of his back, but it was there. Bits of sinew and cartilage hung from his skin, little echoes of a shame that still hadn’t left him. Zuko whimpered a little, and stepped out of the shower. He pulled on his binder and shirt, and could already feel the blood emerging from his back. The blood beneath his skin would start pumping again soon, but for now he just focused on the burning. He sent the man a look as he left the shower, and felt a rush of satisfaction when the man’s eyes widened. Then he continued his journey.

Around five streets later, he heard a deafening racket from one of the side streets. It was people yelling, and maybe fighting? Either way, there was something ethereal about the way they screamed. Icareans, he realised. Only Icareans screamed like that. People like him.

Following his curiosity, he turned the corner and edged nervously towards the crowd. There was a boy flying there, with dark brown hair and light golden skin, and a voice like dynamite. He was holding a banner and yelling something about legalising air races. Well, speak of the devil, Zuko supposed. His fist was raised above him, and behind his head flapped brown and white feathers. A leather jacket had been torn at the back to make way for them.

“This is a denial of _us_!” he was screaming, “You forbid us our wings and you forbid a side to us! Your children will look back at you in _shame!_ For we _will_ win.”

A cry of support came up from the crowd. At that moment there came a small, barely perceptible whine from the city, as if it were a sleeping dog rudely awoken by a misplaced step. The police were coming. Zuko felt himself freeze- if his father caught him here, he would never be allowed back.

The speaker paused and the crowd shifted in suspense, listening as the whine grew. Then they were shrieking, running, thrusting as far away as they could, and they started to barrel their way into each other. There were loud sobs crashing through the air. Finally the car came to a shrieking halt, and the policemen stepped out. “Cease and desist!” they called, but people were frantic now, teased and torn apart by inexperienced rebellion.

From the corner of his eye, Zuko saw Sergeant Zhao. People were starting to run now, but Zuko was frozen. It was without warning that a hand drove into his shoulder and sent him to the ground, the gravel biting into his face. He almost yelled as he felt a foot driving down between his shoulder blades, but he was silent in his pain, the world going black around him as foot after foot bore down against his spine.

But then there was the sensation of being lifted _up_ even without his useless wings. Was he dead, he wondered, squeezing his eyes shut. Well, dead or not, somehow he was flying. He finally opened his eyes and saw the arm wrapped around his waist. That meant _they_ were flying. Or running. He turned his head and saw that it was the main protester, the one that screamed.

Suddenly they rounded a corner and the rebel came to a screeching halt. The boy looked down at him, and there was something feral in his eyes. “Wrap your arms around my neck, I’m taking you home.”

Despite the rebel’s efforts, one could tell that he was enjoying the cop chase, his face flushed and his eyes bright beyond recognition. The sound of police pulsed behind them, and Zuko hid his face against the boy’s warm chest. Finally he heard the expanse of wings opening behind him. And then they were flying- _flying_ , like in the stories his mother had told him when he was little. When he had been nothing but a young boy with fluffy grey wings at his back.

It took three minutes for him to brave a glimpse, and his heart stopped as it saw the earth shrinking beneath them. His hands gripped tighter into the boy’s shirt, knuckles going white with panic. They were soaring, and when the police stopped searching they didn’t land. They didn’t stop flying until they were hours out of the city.

They settled down in what seemed to be a large barn. No, it _was_ a barn. With a small shed at the back. Zuko gasped as he was placed upon the ground. There was the feeling of dirt burning into his feet and he shook slightly, leaning into the arms around him.

“Where have you taken me?” Zuko asked, his voice trembling like glass under gunfire. He turned and he shoved his hands into the boy’s chest. “Tell me where you’ve taken me _now._ I’ll _fight you_.”

The boy simply wrapped his hands around Zuko’s wrists. “You’re Ozai’s son.”

Zuko gulped, trying to pull away. “My father will come for me! You’ve done enough illegal stuff! You’ll go to jail for years and years, for _kidnapping_! He’ll come looking after me, you know he will!”

The boy blinked, and shook his head. He sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just pointing out that your dad’s a piece of shit.” He paused, and unfurled his hands. They left bloodstains on the cuffs of his shirt. “But I suppose you don’t want to hear that right now. You’re a bird, so you’re one of us.”

Zuko widened his eyes and shook his head, pulling away. He frowned as strongly as he could, and felt as though it were carving into his face. “No. No, I’m nothing like you.”

The boy shrugged, and there didn’t seem to be much caring at all. “You’re bleeding all over my garden. Have you even got bandages on whatever is back there?”

Zuko stared at him and then, slowly, shook his head. The boy grinned as if nothing were wrong in the world at all. “Well we need to change that. By the way, my name’s Jet.”

-

Red was seeping into the mattress but the boy, Jet, didn’t seem to care at all. In fact, he was strangely lackadaisical about it, and it was obvious that the bed had experienced many wounds before. Zuko couldn’t feel it in himself to care. Jet’s hands rested on his hips, then dropped them. “You need to take your shirt off so I can dress your wounds. Have you put any antiseptic on them?”

Zuko shook his head, and started to rid himself of his shirt. He dropped it by his feet. “I can wash it when I get home,” he mumbled. He felt a sinking dread in his stomach as he slid the binder up over his chest, over the grizzled wound. There came the slightest hitch of Jet’s horror, but then he was rubbing ointment into his wounds and it _burned_ like nothing Zuko had ever felt before. He opened his mouth in a cry, only to feel the curve of a bottle against his lips. Whiskey.

“Drink,” Jet commanded, and Zuko did. He felt the alcohol, felt it searing his throat as it went down. It felt hot behind his eyes, and then Jet was wrapping his chest without looking, through touch alone. “Tell me if it’s too tight, okay? They got you real good.”

Zuko just stared at his bloodied hands, at Jet’s bloodied hands. He shuddered in pain as Jet wrapped the bandages snuggly around the mutilated flesh.

“It’s still not the worst I’ve seen,” Jet said with his strange Icarean-raised-by-Icarean accent. “I’ve seen young kids with the wings _torn_ off. They come back, though. Can take years, but they come back.” His fingers knotted the bandages, and Zuko took a deep breath. He looked back to Jet, who was now holding the blood soaked shirt. “God, how do you let your wings out? They need to breathe, you know.”

“I don’t,” Zuko mumbled, “It’s not an honourable thing to show.”

A sadness showed in Jet’s eyes, but it didn’t look as much like pity as Zuko had expected. Then he turned around and started going through shirts. There were a lot of them, even enough for a small army. There was just one thing they had in common, however- there were large holes cut in the back, making way for what could only be wings.

Then he held up the only sealed-back shirt he owned. It was dark red, dark enough to disguise blood. He took it and slid it over his body. “Can’t believe I’m wearing ace bandages again,” Zuko sighed.

“It won’t be for too long,” Jet said, almost as if he were talking to himself, “One of the kids we have, Sneers, got his wings amputated when he got run over. You’ll see him, he’s the little chubby one with the hair bun. He’s 12.”

It was with a shock that Zuko noticed Jet removing his own clothing. The sleeves were barely blue anymore, and Zuko’s blood made it almost black. He turned on a tap at the other end of the room, shoving both shirts under the stream. Zuko took the time to observe him.

If there was one piece of information Ozai _hadn’t_ deprived him of, it was that most of his kind was fucking ripped. Of course, a muscular Icarean was a flying Icarean, and that meant an illegal one. And here crime was written into Jet’s body like scripture, his wings spread wide so Zuko could see the dip of shadow at the base of his spine.

With a jerk Zuko forced his gaze away and only looked back once Jet had slipped on a covering, a kind of spandex binder material with soft cotton around the base of his wings. They were tired now, worn out from the weight of Zuko, and they hung limply against each other. They were damp with sweat.

With an almost imperceptible effort he slipped on a light T-shirt, with the shape of a hooksword stitched into the shoulder. He looked at Zuko and grinned. “You must be tired, huh! Let’s go get dinner.” He held out a hand but Zuko looked away. Jet didn’t seem to care much either way. He chucked Zuko a pair of shoes.

They made their way to the barn, a mammoth structure that sat like a red scar against the greenery. A few children were outside, and Zuko noted that they came in all ages and species. A young girl was running topless, her fluffy wings trailing uselessly behind her as she tackled an older boy- man?- with a mass that seemed too big for the heron wings he sported. Still, he managed to lift a few feet off the ground and pick the girl up in a hug.

Jet paused, smiling at the two of them before letting off a loud whistle. The two of them froze and snapped their attention to Jet, and the girl started to head toward them. She paused when she saw Zuko. “What’s a _human_ doing here, Jet?” she asked, and tugged him down. She rubbed her cheek against his, and Jet smiled, ruffling her hair.

“He’s not. He’s Icarean, like us, although he’s a little roughed up. You make sure the others are nice to him, alright? I’m counting on you, Beelzebub.” The girl nodded and turned around, running towards the barn. The other person followed her.

Zuko looked at Jet. “She wasn’t wearing a shirt.”

“Laundry day. We don’t have as much as we need.” He pushed open a side door, and the children’s talking stopped when they saw Jet. There was no fear in their eyes, Zuko noted, just an excited respect.

The dozen or so Icareans shuffled into a line, disorganised and fidgety, and he made his way past each person, doing the same thing to them as he’d done to the young girl. Zuko noticed a chubby boy, his wings smaller than his peers. This must be the boy Jet was talking about. Then he walked over to a few cribs in the corner, and picked up some younger children, rubbing cheeks with each of them.

There was the sound of movement near Zuko, and he whipped around of instinctive caution. There was a small child, a young black girl with eyes full of wonder, and a set of wispy white wings on her back. She blinked. “Are you a human?” she asked, in a mix of trepidation and fascination. “What’s your clan greeting?”

Zuko paused and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think back to anything his mother might have passed him, but there was nothing in his brain, not even a subtle memory of her words. “Hello?” he mumbled, “And, I guess, people shake hands?”

“So you’re a _people_?” the girl asked, batting her little wings. She stepped close and shifted, peeking at his back. “You haven’t gotten any wings?” She gasped quietly, paling, her gaze eventually focusing on Jet, who looked at her and moved closer. Jet rested a hand on the young girl’s shoulder.

“This is Zuko, Ada. He’s staying with us for a while, until he finds his wings.” He winked and smiled at her as he turned around, standing beside Zuko.

The girl, Ada, gasped again, looking between the two boys with increasing excitement. She made a little squeak and flapped her wings, the shape of them full and easily enough to lift herself off the ground. “Jet has a boyfriend!”

Jet paused for a moment, blinking once. Then he shook his head, not looking at Zuko. “No no no, he’s just a friend! He’s just passing through, completely temporary.” He held his hands out and splayed the fingers out before him, as if offering something. “He’s…We’re just going to patch him up and find him somewhere to stay, okay?”

All the children were looking at him again, with more interest in their eyes. They were talking amongst each other, with inches of doubt or confusion between them. Before Zuko could even breathe he had children tugging him in two directions.

-

On the second day, the man Pipsqueak came back to the barn with two children under his arms. He had come from the city, where he’d found the two on the street. Jet turned to Pipsqueak and whistled something secret. He turned to the group of children, and clapped his hands once.

That was the night where things changed for Zuko. The room, although it had a large outer area to play, and although the children were sufficiently cared for, had run out of beds.

“Everyone has to find a buddy to stay the night with, I’m going to figure out the newcomers, alright? They might stay with Suki, they might not.” He picked up one of the infants, a white boy with tufts of dark hair. The kids started to talk among themselves, and Jet walked through the crowd toward Zuko. “Hey there! Sorry for the messy organisation, we’re just figuring out where these kids are gonna end up. Can you hold Mathieu for a moment?”

Without waiting for an answer, Jet pressed the baby into Zuko’s arms, angling his elbows just so. Then he was off, his wings beating waves of air towards Zuko.

The baby was quiet, but not still. He blinked up at Zuko, and for what felt like forever, the two just stared at each other, equally unsure of what to do. Cry? Distract Jet? Zuko sat down on what had been his bed, but was suddenly being reclaimed by Ada and another girl.

Zuko felt unbelievably responsible for the life in his arms, small and fragile as if he were made of glass. How easy would it be to simply let go and drop him, and live with the guilt forever. The look in Mathieu’s eyes was even harder to read than others. Except Jet. Jet read like an open book, made his intentions and desires known without the slightest hint of subtext.

Finally a pair of arms reached out and took the baby back. It was Jet, and he gave a soft smile to the baby and then Zuko. His wings opened, and he slid them around him and Zuko, like a large and golden curtain. “Zuko. News is they’re staying with Suki. But they’re staying here for a week or so, they’re pretty scared. So, the beds go to the kids. They’re priorities.”

Zuko bit his lip and looked away. “So, I’ve got to leave? Is that what you’re saying?” There was a strange and unwarranted pang of pain in the left side of his ribcage. Of course, if he were forced to leave the group, he’d be living on the street. It was only natural to feel pain at the thought of leaving. Then again, he knew that he had an uncle somewhere, who’d take him in-

“No!” Jet’s words sounded like blunt force, and there was a faint glimmer of hurt in them, before his shoulders sagged and he grinned, shifting the infant in his arms, who shoved a fist in their mouth. “I mean, no. You’re staying in the shed with me.”

Zuko blinked, and turned in the direction of the shed. Even though he couldn’t see through the walls, he knew that it was small, with only a door and windows. He could barely imagine how Jet’s gigantean wings could fit inside such a small space. Especially when he slept, how could his wings not take everything else with him? Zuko had always slept on his side, with his wings strapped to his back.

Jet laughed at the expression, and nudged him gently. “C’mon, it’ll be fine,” Jet said, “People stay with me all the time, I don’t kick.” His wings flapped once and sent a little gust of air at Zuko’s hair. He spluttered, but realised that there wasn’t much point clinging to appearance. Jet then went off to prepare some meat, leaving the baby with an older child.

-

The room was a lot smaller than Zuko had thought it was. Now that he saw it again, the metal walls and the fist-sized windows created a feeling of entrapment, as if Jet had left himself in a jail cell. There was a desk in the corner, resting on spindly metal legs, with a pile of paper splattered with his bad handwriting. There were two radios on top of each other, small grey boxes that crackled with static from an unperceivable world.

Zuko stepped closer to the desk and let his gaze fall upon the page. Jet had obviously been up late last night, past the time he’d sent Zuko to bed in the barn. Jet’s bed looked larger than the one Zuko had stayed in, but it was barely any better; hard mattress and scratchy covers- it was _worse_ than what Zuko had stayed in.

_August 14, 2016_

_Zk arrived today. He has no tribe, and someone (his father???) has cut his wings off. I could not let him stay hurt, despite his dad. Besides, he almost died at the rally and he had no shoes. He was burning in my arms._

 

Zuko tore his gaze away and sat down on the bed. He watched Jet shift, looking strangely calm, a slowed tempo compared to the high speeds at which he conducted his day. He picked up a toothbrush and toothpaste, and went out to brush his teeth.

In the meantime, Zuko stood and walked over to a long, thin mirror. It wasn’t fancy in the slightest, and it teetered backwards, resting against the wall. His own face stared back at him, and he forced himself to look. His long nose, the softness of his jaw. But, of course, his gaze came back to that massive scar, large and red and inflamed, still tingling with the heat of fire. But it didn’t hurt as much as his back.

He turned to the side and pulled off his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. There was still blood on the back, but it had crusted and turned dark. There was less than yesterday. He looked up at the bandages that wrapped snugly around his ribcage, reminding him of years of closet binding, wondering who would notice, being trans right beneath their noses.

At that moment Jet came in and Zuko squeaked, turning and jumping onto the bed. But Jet just unbuttoned the cotton shirt that he wore, and slid it up and over his wings. He glanced at Zuko.

“I am sorry,” Jet muttered, preening his feathers. His fingers worked their way through the squeezed feathers, dark brown with the occasional gold. Then he flapped them, satisfied with his efforts. “Ace bandages constrict, so you need them. Considering the state your wings were- _are_ \- in.”

  
Zuko glanced at him, at the fine and toned torso acquired from years in the sky. _Illegal_ years in the sky, Zuko reminded himself, and watched the boy sit on the bed, his expression calm and his hands at rest.

Jet’s wings slid open, and the large end feathers came closer, brushing the sheets by Zuko’s face. He couldn’t help it, he reached out and touched one of the feathers. It was the softest thing he’d ever felt.

“That’s a primary,” Jet muttered, not making eye contact. “They’re what allow me to keep balance in the air.” He moved closer and took Zuko’s hand in his. Then he stood up, his wings spread wide like a border.

“That’s what the outer ones are called?” Zuko asked, and Jet made a noncommittal grunt.

“These end ones are primaries. Then you have secondary, and tertiary.” He took Zuko’s fingers and brushed them over the feathers. He was blushing fiercely, a strange thing for a boy like him. “The tertiary feathers are incredibly sensitive. Remember, these aren’t made from bone, that’s why it hurts so much for you. They’re growths, full to the brim of nerve endings and that sort of stuff.”

Zuko blinked, and remembered the wings he had left behind. He remembered how much it had burned. Although much of it was fog, he could feel his father’s hand at the base of his left wing, could hear him yelling, could feel the blade as it sawed through all those layers of feeling. He looked up, making eye contact with the other boy.

“I can imagine you’ve figured that last part out, though, huh?” Jet smiled, and already their looks carried the currents of thoughts that lacked words.

-

“Where’s he going?” Zuko asked Ada one night, the book momentarily forgotten as Jet said goodbye to a bunch of younger kids. His hair looked windswept and his eyes looked jagged, as if he were walking onto a minefield. He glanced up at Zuko and started to make his way over.

Zuko looked up at him and smiled awkwardly.

“You’ll keep out of trouble while I’m gone, Zuko?” Jet asked, folding his arms over his chest. There was a knapsack over one shoulder, and the bulge of a pocketknife against his thigh. It was buttoned securely.

“I don’t make any promises,” Zuko said, and to his delight it brought a laugh from the angel. His feathers shook with mirth, making small rustles through the air. Then he grinned and reached out a hand, resting it on Ada’s shoulder.

“You’re in charge this time, Ada. And, Zuko,” he winked, “Read to them.

Then he turned and left, striding through the 20 or so children, his wings looming massive and golden behind him. He opened the door, and Zuko noticed Ada scrambling to her feet. She was bouncing. “Zuko!” she yelled, “Come see Jet fly!”

She led him out onto the lawn, and Zuko blinked, the darkness struggling to adjust. But then there was the moonlight and there was Jet, the light turning him silver and grey beneath its touch.

“Zuko,” came a hiss, and Ada was crouched down into the grass. Her wispy white wings hid her body, pressing her down into the grass. “Don’t let him see us. That makes it special.”

Despite himself, Zuko listened to her and sank into the grass. It was cold and slightly damp against his cheek, and he watched the methodical flapping of Jet’s wings. They sent waves of noise through the night, and the grass whispered around them. For a moment, Zuko thought he felt Jet’s gaze land on him, but then the boy was running and beating his wings and he was ascending into the air.

It tugged at Zuko’s chest as he watched Jet sail off into the air. For a moment his wings were tucked tight around his body, but then he was soaring. Zuko was reminded once again of how large they were, bigger than any he’d seen. He knew that wings were in proportion to height and mass, and god they were perfect for Jet.

He was no more than a dot against the moon, now, hurtling. Zuko turned his head away, and felt the breeze pass over him.

-

It was 4 AM when Jet returned. Zuko was on the bed, resisting the tug and pull of dreams, his nose resting against Jet’s pillow. He watched the clock, counting the seconds under his tongue. Each time up to 60, and then starting again. The kids were asleep, a blissful quiet surrounding Zuko for the first time since he’d come here.

Jet’s arrival was announced by a gust of wind that slammed itself against the shed. Zuko shuddered, feeling the wind pry itself through the crack in the windowsill. He really should’ve shut it, but the cold air was bliss against his aching skin. He’d undone the bandages, replacing them with a tight singlet.

The door opened, and Jet walked in. Zuko glanced over at the boy, who wasn’t looking at him. “Jet,” Zuko said, and felt the flinch in the air between them. But Jet owned up to it, and raised his gaze.

He looked like a mess. He looked worse than a mess. Bloody sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his eyes were squeezed between puffy black eyelids. His nose looked broken, and it drooled hot red over his mouth.

Zuko gasped, even though it was disrespectful. “What happened to you?” he asked.

Jet grinned, seeming to ignore the pain. “Money happened to me.” He turned around and grimaced at his reflection. “God, looks like I’ve been hit by a truck.” His wings were bloody too, but at least they were still there. And functional.

His knuckles were turning blue. Could he feel anything in that hand? Apparently, because he took to peeling the strands of hair away from his face. They hung limply around his head like a crumpled halo, a crown of thorns. He started to tug his shirt off, but paused in pain. Finally he dropped it to the floor and turned back to Zuko. _We match,_ he seemed to be saying, _Can’t you see that we’re the exact same? I get beat up too._

Zuko couldn’t look at him, and he wondered if he’d be able to face the kids in the morning. He sank down into the bed, closing his eyes and focusing on that dark wasteland. The place where nothing could touch him, where he was impenetrable. “No,” he mumbled, “You look like you got hit by a truck, dragged through twenty miles of concrete, and thrown against a wall.”

Jet laughed. He was treating his wounds now, pouring alcohol into a cotton bud and pressing it against the thin slices. He regarded himself with heady resignation. Then he turned and crawled into the bed, collapsing besides Zuko; head resting against the pillow.

An angel. Zuko had heard of angels a lot, but he’d constantly been reminded that _Icareans were not the same, they proved that years ago._ But Jet both proved and defied that theory. From his nose spread a red cloud, dark and sticky. It was darker than human blood. He looked at Zuko and smiled. His wing spread out, covering Zuko. “There. Now you’re warm,” Jet said, and closed his eyes. He didn’t turn out the light, so Zuko just observed him, the shadows of his cheeks and the thick bruises that marred his usually beautiful features.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zuko is,, gay,,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s finally here! I lost the edited chapter so many time, and thus had to rewrite and rewrite. I am trying to make it perfect, but the last time I spent that long on a fic I ended up spending a month and... yeah. I have stuff to WRITE and also school.
> 
> Thank you for your patience!!! And thank you to anyone who has been so kind as to leave a review of any sort, it really does keep me going.

_Harold Scheiner, PhD in Icarean Anthropology: The Icareans were always different to us. All over the world they landed, and they brought with them the same language in varying dialects. They never spoke of where they came from, just assimilated into the general public (as easily as they could). The raw Icarean language is hard to come across, but universities [such as Cambridge, England, or scattered schools in rural communities] teach it as an option. The language is incredibly gendered, changing depending on the gender of the person one is talking to. (They have adjusted their words to fit a Western binary, but they have a nonbinary language in addition)_

_It is a common belief that the word_ Icarean _fit into the Ancient Greek legends of Icarus, a boy with wings who fell from the sky. However, there is increasing speculation on whether the word has actually borrowed from the Icarean language itself. In their language, they call themselves_ Icadir _._

 _This word shares a possible link to the word_ Icus _, meaning love._

_However, this is also the word for ‘blood’._

 

ii.

 

A week passed, and Jet’s wounds healed slowly. He didn’t give them time, so caught up was he in his duty. Zuko still didn’t talk to many of the children, aside from Ada. She seemed to have chosen him, and she now followed him everywhere.

“Where does Jet go?” Zuko asked one night. The country sky was splattered with stars, tiny white dots that seemed so far away yet so _close._ And he remembered that somewhere, something inside him came from out there. Someone with wings, with a legacy, with alien blood inside them. He shuddered.

Ada shrugged. “Jet does all sorta jobs for us. We have hundreds of animals living on our property, though. Cattle and chicken and lamb, all living wild on the property. But it’s not enough, so he goes and does anything he can to get medical supplies.”  


The silent truth of Jet’s delinquency was evident. For a moment, Zuko thought about how easy it would be to give him to his father. To say _‘I found him,, I can come home now’._ But the mere contemplation of ruining not just Jet’s life, but these _children-_ he forced himself to think of kinder things.

They stayed until Jet’s dark form appeared in the sky, and then they scampered down the ladder. Ada ran inside, but Zuko froze. He heard the sound of Jet’s wings and he turned around, still as anything, as Jet hurtled like a comet towards the earth. He watched Jet pull himself back at the last moment, bending his knees as he hit the ground.

Then he stood up, and the two made eye contact. Jet didn’t say anything, frozen by the light and wind, his eyes heavy and black.

“Welcome home,” Zuko whispered.

 

Resting in the bed that had become his, he thought of his uncle. That was who he should be with, he thought, a man who had opened his arms for Zuko, who was kind and gentle and _human_. Then he could start to make his way back to his father and he could be normal again. Normal with restrained wings, strapped to his back with the bandages of his youth.

Then there came the sound of yells outside his room. He opened his eyes and went over to the window. Jet was ushering a bunch of children inside, laughing as if he weren’t battered beyond relief. He had stemmed the bleeding from his hairline well enough.

Curiosity got the better of Zuko, and he made his way out of the shed and over to the barn. It was dusk, and the inside of the barn was a thick black, save for the silhouettes of children. Jet was sitting on a chair, his knees tucked up against his chest as his voice carried.

“The kestrel was very happy,” Jet was saying, and he smiled when he saw Zuko. He glanced away, and Zuko almost thought he saw a blush. He walked closer, listening to Jet tell his story. “In her cabin by the sea, she was at ease with the tides, and the fish that came to tell her stories.”

Zuko reached out and ran a finger over a feather. He felt it shiver beneath his touch, but lean into him as Jet went on. He spoke of a winged woman, an _angel_ , and her quest to find the sea serpent’s wings. Zuko smiled to himself in a rare moment of vulnerability, no company but the night around them. He felt sleepy.

After the story was over, Jet stood up without a word and walked out. Zuko followed him to the shed they now shared.

“Can I touch your wings?” Zuko blurted suddenly, eyes trained on the primaries, delicate and soft and slightly wet with dew. Jet froze, muscles going rigid. Then he nodded and sat on the bed.

“Not the really inside ones,” he said quietly, “That’s generally reserved for sex. They’re _super_ sensitive, but the ones on the outside are okay.” He fanned his wings out behind him, and Zuko sat down.

He took a primary finger, long and slender, perfectly rounded by wind and flight. Mottled with dark freckles, he ran a finger over the stem, feeling Jet purr in his grip. Slowly he trailed his fingers down towards the tertiaries by his back, near where the feathers turned into warm skin. Here they were coarser, darker.

Jet’s head tipped backwards, a soft growl in his throat. His eyes had long since closed, his lips parted, and in the light his cheeks were flushed with red heat. For a moment Zuko humoured the thought of what it would be like, to slide his hand around just so, to rub the soft and fine down that rested there. What would Zuko’s name sound like, on Jet’s tongue?

He yanked his hand away, not looking at Jet. That wasn’t part of the agreement, he reminded himself. _Not him, never him._

 

It was raining the day the membrane started to form on his back. In the mirror it was filmy, skin-coloured and criss-crossed by red and blue veins. It reminded him of a horror movie. Even worse was the fact that it itched to high heaven, and that the skin was borderline impenetrable.

It was the third day now, and he hadn’t left the bed. No, this was something he had never experienced before, the utter _burning_ that tore through his body. He tried to rub against the covers to no relief. He shuddered, a wave of sensation coursing through his body.

The door opened and Jet came with pot boiled coffee. It smelled warm, and he reached out a hand.

Zuko didn’t even care that he was shirtless, it ached so badly. The blanket coiled around his chest, he watched lazily as Jet sat down beside him. Zuko whined a little, throat aching and body temperature hotter than hell. There was something cathartic about just the sight of those feathers, soft and perfect and beautiful beneath the light.

“No, I’m not going to kiss you,” Jet said with a smirk, and Zuko realised that he’d spoken. He grumbled, the embarrassment spared for the day. He was in Hell, he could say hellish things. “I don’t kiss people unless they’re fully consenting, and I don’t count fevers among that.” He winked, his voice soaked with amusement.

God, Zuko thought to himself, what will life be like without this. Where will everything go? All the sunlit mornings and the sense of peace and love. The hectic nature of Jet’s days, and the halcyon moments when the two of them touched, fingers against feathers and missed warmth in the spaces of wandering hands. Silent gazes across filled rooms. At night, nightmares kept at bay by warm wings against his shoulder.

He would get dreams again, when he left. But he needed to, and it wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.

“Then stay,” Jet said, because Zuko had spoken again. The humour was gone, now, and he just watched Zuko with a vulnerability he hadn’t shown before. His eyes looked like they saw something Zuko didn’t know.

“I make no promises,” Zuko whispered.  
  
“Make a promise, anyway,” Jet said back, “I won’t get mad if you break it.”

 

Time wore on, and Zuko felt time on his shoulders. He thought of his uncle, that sage man with the funny words. He thought of his father, who was not that. He knew that he had to reveal himself at some point, he couldn’t be dead forever. That was an impossibility.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from watching Jet as he drifted through his day. The way he laughed, the way his wings ruffled when he was mad, the gentleness that Zuko had never felt. How it fitted with Jet’s natural abrasiveness, Zuko didn’t know. He appreciated it.

And then there was another blow to his plans.

It was raining when Jet returned, on a late and lonely night where the emptiness sung inside Zuko, and where he found himself craving only one person. He didn’t want to acknowledge their name, however. Not _that_ one.

The doors slammed open, and with him came Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors, each with a child under their arm. Jet was carrying a limp, pallid infant; their head tucked into the crook of his elbow. They were swathed in fabric, sleeping, while Jet was covered in a panicked sweat.

“Jet, we need to find its mother.”

“She _left him_ , Suki. She left him, what part of that don’t you understand!” They went into a side room, and Zuko followed the noise, hovering by the door. Jet’s voice was muffled now, coming in bursts against the door. “And if we give him to a hospital they’ll find his mother or give him to someone _worse_. His mother gave him up because she couldn’t keep him, she _made that choice_!”

“He is _sick_ , Jet!”

Zuko felt his breath hitch. This was the first time he’d heard Jet face a philosophical matter. What choices were there? What choices was Jet making every day?

“No, fuck that, I’m not giving this kid to a system that would hurt him. I- god, I want to protect him, Suki. And if a hospital would do that, I would give him over in a _moment_. But I can’t, Suki. I can’t do anything like that. You know that.”

“You’ve got to look after your other kids, too! This one is sick, he might die, he mi-”

“I’ll do it.” The voice broke through the silence. Zuko pushed through the door, and now stood with as much confidence as he could muster. He felt himself tremble, and he looked to Jet. The other boy was watching him with a strange firelight in his eyes, but then he was smiling; a dimple creasing in his left cheek.

“Take him to bed.” He slid the baby boy into Zuko’s arms, taking care to rest his head in the crook of Zuko’s elbow. Then Zuko walked away, stalked away, his arms feeling flimsy and useless around the infant.

Zuko didn’t have the energy to turn the light on, so focused was he on protecting the child. He made his way to the shed and sat down on the mattress, resting the infant on the pillow beside him. The boy was sleeping, and Zuko took the time to analyse him, spindly pale body and shadowy black hair falling in wisps over his head.

When the door opened his heart sped up, and he hid a blush behind his hand. He didn’t look away from the baby, just listened as Jet got changed. Then he laid down on the other side, his gaze soft and kind. “So small, aren’t they,” he whispered, “It blew my mind, the first time I got a little one. The Duke.” Zuko was silent, and then Jet was silent.

Slowly, Jet’s golden wing spread out, draping over the shoulders of the baby. His gaze felt heavy and tired against Zuko’s own, and the silence between them was full of breaths and heartbeats. Their hands stretched out towards each other, Jet’s fingertips throbbing with electricity. Their fingers touched, above the baby’s head, on the pillow.

They didn’t say goodnight, just fell asleep slowly.

 

Feathers had finally sprouted from his back. It was Jet who found them, two months after his arrival. They had been inspecting the bumps, when Jet burst into a laughter that sent him silent. “You’re sprouting!” The baby, Nathaniel, stirred in his crib at the edge of the room. He was getting better, but people still approached him with caution.

“What?” Zuko asked, and felt something like voltage pulse through him from the place Jet touched him. They would pop over time, he knew, and become dark brown and ungainly. But for now the place where Jet touched him felt good and hot. He didn’t know how much of it was from the wings, and how much was just _Jet._

“You’re getting your wings back.”

“They feel like I’m in hell,” he muttered. In his mind they were red and atrocious, huge and bulbous against his back. Like giant, impenetrable blisters. He felt Jet’s fingers against his lower back, against the dip in his spine. They didn’t move from that place on his skin. Just stayed, warm in the safest possible way. Zuko sighed, and reached up to touch his hair. It was too long now, falling to his shoulders.

“I know a way you can make it feel better,” Jet muttered, and Zuko could hear him smiling, “But it’d fluster you.”

Zuko turned his head, and felt pain in his neck. Still, he looked at the other boy, sitting on his calves with a loose t-shirt and perfectly refined fingers, perfect hands, light brown and smelling of metal and buttermilk. “Do it anyway,” he heard himself say. “Anything to make it stop.”

He strained to hear Jet’s response, but there was nothing. Just their comfortable silence and Jet’s hands stirring at the base of his spine. They were warm, warmer than he’d ever felt and it struck him that he had never been touched before. His father had hit him, had burned him, had cut him up and left him for dead, but he had never _touched_ him. He pressed his face into the pillow, not wanting to let the past ruin things. _Don’t ruin this_ , he told himself, _let me have his hands, if nothing else._ The last part wasn’t planned.

That warm touch slid gently up over his back, tentative but relaxed. Zuko felt himself uncoiling, unspooling, turning into liquid and heat beneath his friend’s hands. Yes, he thought for the first time. They were friends. Friends who looked at each other with secret words, walls with exceptions, that didn’t feel lingering at the other’s touch. It felt as though he was burning.

No. He had burned before.

This was different.

He closed his eyes and made a soft noise as he felt Jet’s hands slide just beneath his blisters, and his stomach clenched in confused anticipation. And then they touched, and the itch disappeared completely. The punch of flame hit Zuko right in the abdomen, inside his pelvis. He trembled when he felt it, soft hands turning him into liquid. A soft, cat-like mewl left his mouth and he arched his back against the other boy’s touch. His cheek was red, so he didn’t dare lift his head. But the noises were unstoppable, they were _there_ and flaming hot as they left his mouth. They were explosions, dynamite, and he was the debris at the end.

Finally he pushed back and turned around. “Enough,” he said, his voice feeling raw. Jet nodded, and his cheeks were darker than usual. He tried to smile, tried to send a message like _Told you so_ , but he couldn’t find the words.

Zuko grabbed Jet’s face and leaned in close, so close that their noses were almost brushing. The other boy’s eyes widened fractionally, so slight that it wouldn’t be noticed from another two inches away. But he didn’t flinch, just sat with his face in Zuko’s hands. His gaze paused at Zuko’s eyes, then shifted down towards his lips.

There was the fist and there was the confusion. Then Zuko was leaning forward, pressing his lips gently against Jet, barely even touching. He felt arms wrapping around him, and the taste of ash and blood lingered in his mouth, but it was okay and they were okay. They touched, and Zuko felt it tearing a hole in him, through him.

A crash against the door and they were tearing apart. They split like stone beneath an axe, and Zuko scrambled for his shirt, pulling it over his body and shuddering at the fabric. He watched as Jet moved over to the door and talked to the little girl, that stood there, Theresa. His wings were ruffled. Zuko saw Jet pause and turn back towards him, his eyes filled with something like regret. For what, Zuko didn’t know. Then he left.

 

Things with Jet were…really weird, now, although they tried to pretend it wasn’t. Try as he might, there was no denying the fact that _Zuko had kissed Jet and Jet kissed him back._ There was no denying that it had been Zuko that had held the other boy’s head in his hands, and that he’d kissed him and he’d enjoyed it, that he’d nurtured the small, bitesized flame that grew and grew and grew at the base of his stomach.

Jet came back from the city one afternoon with the worst injuries he’d ever brought home. His fingers were no doubt dislocated, and blood and pus streaked from homemade stitches. He took his shirt off to expose bloody, distorted ribs. That wasn’t different, however- they had the shifts, the memories of tectonic shifts, of earthquakes beneath his skin. They had been broken many times.

“Jet, what are you doing?”

He turned to Zuko in shock, as though the life had been chased out of him. His wings tensed, and his breath was harsh and hot. Zuko knew that he’d done something wrong, something different. _You’re not supposed ask. You weren’t supposed to ask,_ whispered the rule that both of them knew. That neither of them said. Jet looked betrayed, almost, but then he turned away.

“Jet, come here. Let me see you.” There was an undercurrent to those words that was once again ignored. But Jet turned faithfully, and walked with silence and caution towards the edge of the bed. His face tipped forward like a martyr’s, blood making a trail down his face, rendering him monstrous. Was he a monster? Was he a saint?

Still, Zuko found that he didn’t fear the other boy. For the first time in his life, he didn’t fear a single thing. He reached up, and tilted Jet’s- His friend, his friend, his _kind and generous friend_ \- face towards his own. His nose brushed Zuko’s cheek, leaving a spot of blood. The two of them winced at the same time, and Zuko knew that Jet was thinking of that night, mouth against mouth and hand against body.

Jet smiled, and a canine was already regrowing. But there was something harsh in Jet’s eyes, although it was no more blameful than before. “Are you going to lecture me on what an idiot I am?” His voice was playful but bitter, and Zuko knew that he must’ve heard it dozens of times over. Suki, Smellerbee, Pipsqueak, any number of them must have done it.

Zuko’s voice surprised even himself, low and quiet in the night. Sounding like a lover. “We need you, Jet. Every one of us. You know that, right?”

Jet’s gaze darkened. He tried to pull away from Zuko’s grasp, but Zuko didn’t let him go and finally his hands went idle, even as the voice in his chest rumbled hot as blood. “I know. I know it every day, every moment. Every look and every touch and every _Jet, help me.”_ He finally pulled away, his wings cocooning his body as he faced away from Zuko. This was his fault, Zuko thought. The subject should never have been brought up. He was trembling.

Zuko was silent.

“You don’t even know,” Jet’s voice came like blunt force, and Zuko wondered who he was talking to, “You don’t even know what I do.”

Zuko reached out a hand and rested it over the tensed secondaries. Even through the stiffness, he felt the slight give in Jet’s resolve. “Then tell me,” he whispered, “Tell me what you do.”

Jet closed his eyes, and his lips parted as if to speak, to reveal. Dark hair fell into his eyes and he let it stay there, resting over the bridge of his nose. But then he closed his mouth, closed his words, closed the drawbridge over his heart. Zuko had always expected there was more to Jet than he showed.

“Zuko,” he said, “Zuko, I don’t want to.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo!!! so this came early!!!! thank you all again for your wonderful support. Only one chapter left to go!

 

_Dr Caroline Xavier, Doctor of Icarean Biology: There are things that have been bred out of the Icareans over time, certainly, but there are also things that have stayed. It seems that if you have wings, you also carry the genetic disposition for something known as ‘Icarean Hyperthermia Syndrome’. This is something that was recorded in earlier generations, too- Icareans can have no contact with dry earth. This includes concrete. When they come in contact with the bare ground, their feet will burn and go bright red. This is agonising for them. This is why they fly._

 

iii.

 

He was warm again the next day, and his warmth continued. If anything, he was even closer to Zuko than before. He was unashamed about striding close, resting a hand on his shoulder, brushing his fingers over the wings that came more and more obviously every day. It was like an inevitable train crash, and Jet was something unavoidable. Ramming into himself, pressing himself closer, turning himself into something that would be remembered. Something he’d done many times, Zuko had begun to suspect.

His fingers fixed awkwardly. Over the next few days, they stilled and stilled and stilled, and the pain would send shivers through Jet’s body that only Zuko could see. Maybe that was why he touched Zuko. Heat and pain are brothers, and maybe they felt welcome to Jet’s body. But he never complained. In a place like this, one could expect to get desensitised.

Nathaniel lived. On the fifth day he woke finally, while Zuko was bent over his crib, and he let out a loud wail that outdid any of the other infants. Apparently, any children that had ever entered Jet’s care. He laughed when he took the baby and fed him, fed him with soft pumpkin. It dribbled down his chin and he blinked large, dark brown eyes. They reminded Zuko of Jet. But emptier, not enough life to show in them.

The news was a wide, buzzing thing. And it was announced quickly. Jet bundled Nathaniel into his arms, wings wrapped around him as an extra layer, and he held him before the barn. “He did it!” he yelled, as if he were announcing a child that were _his_ , announced it with love and blood. “Nathaniel made it!”

Zuko snuck his way through the crowd, and like that his gaze met Jet’s. So hot beyond the crowd, everything turning blank, nothing but the two of them. _You did it too_ , Jet’s gaze said, _You and me and heat._ He didn’t smile, but Zuko did. He felt it stilling in the air, turning them into stone. But then Jet was tearing himself away, a crease pushing down between his eyebrows, and he let out a godawful shudder of a breath.

 

“Do you know how glass is made?” Jet asked one night, after Nathaniel had been moved into the main barn. It felt strangely empty without him and his quiet snores, but at least Jet was there. Speaking of that boy, he was curled up on the bed, preening his wings. Zuko sat down, and ran his fingers over a primary. A small purr rose from Jet’s throat.

“I don’t know why it matters.”

“Sand and heat, Zuko.” He glanced at Zuko with a wide smile, and leaned into his touch. “Glass is made from sand and heat.” He reached out and took Zuko’s hand in his, like they had done all those nights ago. “You have the hottest hands I’ve ever touched.”

They were silent like that for a few minutes, heat pulsing through both of them, and Zuko thought that had to be a lie, because he could feel his friend running hotter than anything, hotter than metal on a summer day, almost burning into him. But he held firmly, afraid of the absence of touch. What would happen without it? What would happen without Jet?

Jet sat up, his wings folding behind him. He leaned forward, and his nose brushed Zuko’s. “You don’t have a tribe, do you?” he said, and his voice was filled with sadness. Zuko shook his head. Jet smiled and pulled him close. His nose brushed Zuko’s cheek, warm and sensitive. “Like this.”

Zuko smiled, and at that moment his wings puffed out behind him. The blisters on his back made a _pop_ sound as they deflated. The two of them paused at the sound and stared at each other. Cold streams of fluid ran down Zuko’s back, but what was more spectacular was the appearance of small, very small, wing stumps. Not defined feathers but tufts of fluff, the kind of wings Ada had. “Wow,” Zuko said quietly.

Jet started to smile, but then a thought seemed to strike him half way. Like a bullet, maybe, a bullet of a thought shooting into his brain, embedding in the fist-sized tissue. His smile slid away like sand between fingers, and he pulled his hands away. “Are you going to leave?”

The words were like a punch to the gut. They were unrelenting. “I…” Zuko didn’t know. He looked away. “I still don’t know.”

Jet reached out again, and he once again pulled Zuko into an embrace. _Touch me_ , came the silent request, and so Zuko did. He rested his hands over his friend’s broken ribs, where they pushed against the surface like shipwrecks. He shuddered, feeling that Jet was warm, feeling that he was so, so alive. There was the throb of his heart beneath his skin, like a drum against his chest. His body was statuesque, a stillness that could only be forced.

And then Zuko was sliding them around, pulling Jet into an embrace. Jet’s breath stopped, and his wings went slack against his back. He pressed his face to the crook of Zuko’s neck, and the wiry strands of his hair itched against Zuko’s throat. Still, he stayed silent. Still, he stayed. Tilted his face, even, towards the warmth of Jet’s breath, that came in slight and hot bursts against him.

“Am I sand, then?” Zuko whispered. “Are you the heat that’ll melt me?”

“Zuko, you turned me molten a long time ago.”

 

The next time Jet came home, he lined his family up and greeted each of them in the Freedom Fighter way, cheek to cheek, on and on and on. But then he stood before Zuko. His black eye had faded, and the only thing he’d brought home was the bandages in his bag. Then Jet leaned forward, and pressed his nose to Zuko’s.

“This is how I say hello. I’m your family now. Whether you stay or not, every Icarean needs a family.”

He smiled and moved on, his feathers so long they brushed against Zuko’s calves.

 

The children went down to the river to bathe, so Zuko sat on a rock above them, watching. His wings were as long as a forearm, now, and thick with black feathers. Black, _sensitive_ feathers. When Jet sat down beside him, a shiver went through the rock between them. He was gazing down at the river, his brow lightly furrowed. Then he turned his head and looked at Zuko. There was no shame in his emotion, he held it all on his face without letting it drop. Or maybe he did have shame.

The sound of splashing sounded beneath them.

“I need to find my uncle,” Zuko said quietly, tipping his head back. “The world thinks I’m dead and that’s okay, but- my uncle. He was nice to me, you know. Only one.”

“I get it,” Jet said, and his hand moved, resting over Zuko’s own. He looked away, reminding Zuko of some terrible teen movies he’d sometimes watched. But this was different, with the sound of water and of cattle moving through the trees far away. “If my parents were alive, I’d want to find them. I want to find them every day. I don’t know if I’d choose them over this crew, but…” He turned his gaze to the sky, and they watched an aeroplane pass overhead. Small, filled with so many lives. So many thumbnail lives.

“But you don’t blame me,” Zuko muttered. “And I might come back. I’ll try to come back.”

“No, you won’t.” The words came quiet and sharp. They hurt like bared teeth. Jet, monstrous boy with his head tipped and sunlight pouring over his face like rain, his heart blooming in his cheeks, his feathers the colour of the morning sky. Would Zuko ever get that again, if he left?

Zuko squeezed Jet’s hand, and the other boy looked at him. The world went quiet around them, and all Zuko could feel was Jet’s breath reaching out to him, all he could smell was the musk of his friend. _I don’t want to be friends anymore_ , Zuko thought, _I don’t know if we can be friends the same way, ever again._ Quietly Zuko reached out, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pressed his mouth to Jet’s, and found that it was warm, and it tasted of something that was only, _only_ Jet. No words existed for how he tasted. His hands were still, and his cheek felt slightly damp.

He pulled Zuko close, hands resting on the small of his back. One hand moved into Zuko’s hair, and there was no apology in this. There was no apology at all. _Let me give you this. Let me give you this memory,_ came the unspoken words. Jet’s mouth was desperate, he was desperate, his hands roaming and grasping and possessing, pulling close what little was left. Every time he tried to relent and pull away, Zuko followed and sought him. Kept him close.

 

That night, with Jet’s body against his and the scent of sweat and heat and breaking, Zuko felt the terrible resolve with which he knew he had to live his life. Now that he thought about it, he knew he had duty. Duty he had thwarted for too long. Even if his father had left him for dead, he had an uncle who loved him. He had an uncle who needed him. He couldn’t be dead forever.

So Zuko pulled Jet closer and closer and closer. His wings ached with sensitivity, but he rested on them anyway, let Jet touch the whole of his body. Mouth against mouth, hips pressed deathly close. What could be more than this?

In the mess of heat, Zuko felt like glass. Beautiful, but breakable.

 

The sun ran hot and rampant across his body. He flapped his wings, standing on top of the building. Jet was beside him. A bruise of a different sort peeked out from beneath his collar. He was different today, less composed. His hair was a mess, and the bags under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. Sleepless nights that Zuko had contributed to.

It had been a few weeks since that second kiss, and they kept falling into patterns. Before the kids they remained friendly and orderly, but in each other’s company they fell into a disordered grace, the kind that came with opening wounds. Burning fists inside their stomachs, crashing teeth, bloody mouths, needing each other. As Zuko gained strength in his wings, the weariness in Jet’s stance grew deeper. Whenever Zuko tried to bring it up, Jet changed the subject so well that he forgot it until the following night.

“You’re a beginner, so you need something to jump from,” Jet was explaining, his words tripping over each other. His fingers traced patterns over Zuko’s thigh, and Zuko remembered the way they had touched him, his back, nails dragging red trails into his skin. Tender in the way it hurt. He didn’t know how long it would take for them to fade.

He stood up, wings free behind him, and he felt the wind against him; freezing him and incinerating him. He looked at the drop beneath him and felt no fear. Only the knowledge that this was his last obstacle. This was his way home. His wings shifting in anticipation, he dove sharply toward the ground. For a moment he felt frozen, but then he was in the air with the wind passing between his feathers as he pushed himself into the sky. Wings feeling huge, he turned and stayed still, looking at the world beneath him. Jet had gotten to his feet, and the smile was real.

Yes. Through the pain and the fragile aching, there was pride. His eyes were wide, and there was the distinctive flush of pride on his face. Sunlight bathed him, bathed both of them in gold.

“Zuko!” he shouted, and there was a defiant laughter in his voice, “Zuko, you look like an angel!”

 

The day after he got his flight, Zuko left. He left in the morning, without goodbyes. The three things he took hold of, the three memories he burned into his brain, were Nathanial, Ada, and Jet. Jet hurt worst, the way he slept in naked heat, his hair tangled over his eyes. Like this, there was no man there but the gentle boy who loved like he had nothing to lose. His mouth was open, and his chest moved steadily. He’d been holding Zuko close, his wings resting over Zuko’s own. They felt unbelievably soft.

Still, somewhere, he felt Jet let him go. Whether he was awake or not was anyone’s guess, but he pulled his wing away, and it tightened against his back. Something creased in his forehead, but dreams did that to him too. Zuko pulled on some clothes, as well as a pair of shoes. Five months after he’d arrived, he’d finally outstayed his welcome. He peeked through the door of the barn and saw Nathaniel’s crib next to Ada. He could feel their peace.

“Are you going? Are you really doing it?” came the voice behind him. It was Jet, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. He was barefoot, and the earth was burning at his feet. He didn’t even wince. His face was almost calm, and he looked as normal as any boy Zuko had ever loved.

He loved him, didn’t he?

And who was he kidding? Jet was the only boy he had ever loved.

Zuko looked away, biting his lip. He couldn’t cry, couldn’t ruin this. “I don’t have to,” he whispered, just loud enough for Jet to hear. _Make me stay_ , he wished. _Make an excuse, please._

__

“Yes you do. You know you have to.” He stepped closer, the soles of his feet turning rich and red with blisters. Maybe Jet needed that pain. He didn’t touch Zuko, didn’t even try. Just stood there, looking as if he were completely alright. But something was breaking inside him, just beneath the surface. Like a calm before a tempest.

Zuko bowed his head. “So this is goodbye.”

“Yeah, it is. But I’ll see you again.” And then he leaned forward, and pressed his nose to Zuko’s mouth. “That’s how we say goodbye, when we love someone.” With that he turned and walked away, his wings trailing in the dust. Zuko watched him go.


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for my dear, dear friend theo @histcries because their birthday was like? thursday? Anyway i love them and i hope their year is great!

_Illegal Sports Vol.3: Icarean wrestling is a dangerous sport for dangerous people. A hive where the participants blatantly ignore the prohibitions on flight, it is never far from a bloodbath. And while Icarean wrestling has the same rules for finishing a match, the actual act has no real rules at all._

 

iv.

The house was smaller than Zuko had thought it would be. It was a teahouse as well, but there was an hour until opening. Part of him wanted to say _fuck this_ , to turn around and disappear, to go back to Jet and the kids and the flight. Jet and his hands and his wings and his mouth. The way he looked in the mornings, mouth slack, covers twining between his legs. Looking like a creature of love and light.

Finally he pressed the doorbell, and he heard the quiet echo inside the house. He waited, the sun rising over the city, and he almost walked away, but then the door opened. Iroh was standing there, and he smiled. Silently, he stepped aside and Zuko walked in. There was already a bedroom made for him.

 

The first venture into the city was odd. For the first time in his life, he held his wings unrestrained, free behind him. As he walked past a mirror shop he paused at the sight of himself; it struck him to the core. He was almost terrified, but he forced himself to look at the boy that watched him. Dark, almost black wings arching high above his head, littered with the occasional pale feather. _Zuko, you look like an angel!_ He turned his head, taking in the dark red scar that stained his skin. This was him. This was all of him.

He made his way down the streets he’d known all his life, and he saw the humans and the Icareans that passed him by. It was different, it was strange, it was _magnificent_ , the way people regarded him with a soft respect. And it followed him everywhere; back into the apartment he now shared with his uncle.

(Still, he woke in sweats at the memory of phantom hands, trailing lower and lower over the milk of his body. At the thought of a golden boy on the other side of the room, smiling and pressing a finger to his lips. _Let’s keep this thing ours_ , whispered between glances.)

He stopped at the park. He hadn’t gone there in a long time, not since he was a little boy. He’d had his wings exposed there once, when they had been fist-sized clumps of feathers on his back, thick and black and tangled with youth.

He stared down at the lake, at his reflection, and thought back to his old ‘friend’. How had it only been a month? In his heart, he felt as though Jet should have left his mind by now, as though he should be _gone_. It wasn’t right, like this. Zuko hurt a lot, but he needed to know for sure, if this was where he was needed. As he thought, the storm formed above his head. As the rain came down upon his head, dripping into his eyes, nose, mouth, he didn’t bother to find shelter.

“Hi there,” he heard, and he jolted. Turning to reprimand, he still didn’t expect the girl that was standing beside him, gaze set on the water. Her wings were decidedly albatross, and she wore a denim blue jacket with a raindrop stitched into the shoulder. Maybe she knew Jet. “Why’re you out in weather like this?” She was holding an umbrella, and through the shade he could see that her eyes were a blue unparalleled, like rain stained granite.

Zuko leaned away from the umbrella, and felt the rain settle over his face, seeping into his feathers. He shuddered. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just here, on a walk. Walking.”

She smiled and shook her head. The rain had caught her at the last second. “Fair enough. I’m Katara, daughter of the Southern Water Tribe.”

 _I’m Zuko, Freedom Fighter_. The words died on his tongue.

“I’m Zuko. That’s all there is.”

And so Zuko gained friends. With Katara came her brother, and two twelve year olds who managed to fit snugly into the group despite it all. He still missed Jet. Zuko was starting to wonder if that was permanent, but as he gained a new circle of friends, he tried to distract himself more and more. He got along well with the twelve year old girl, a blind pigeon who never wore shoes.

Time moved on, but Zuko did not.

Then came the day where Toph pushed a pamphlet into his hand. He was to read it when he got home.

As he started on his way home, he thought that he caught the glimpse of someone watching him. Just a slip of a human being, disappearing behind a building. He paused, wings tightening behind him.

He hadn’t flown since he’d arrived in the city. He obeyed the law, or maybe he just didn’t want to. At the most, he was more comfortable in his position as an Icarean who associated with other Icareans. He exchanged courtesies with every one of them, but he never did see a Freedom Fighter. Not just Jet, but any of them.

That night he flung himself onto his made bed and stared at the ceiling. Through the plaster, he sought the moon, sought something that he had in common with Jet. Somewhere he was out there, he hoped. Somewhere, he had the same moon. Smiling a little, Zuko reached into his pocket and pulled out the pamphlet. The smile died.

It was a wrestling match. An illegal, underground wrestling match followed by a race. Where Toph had got it, he had no idea, but there in the page lay something hidden. It seemed like it was calling to him, he thought, and a shudder passed through him like a gasp.

 

Zuko had been to one other wrestling match in his life, and that had been a long time ago. It had been when he was a young boy, only twelve years of age, and his wings had been strapped to his back with a leather belt. It was humiliating, but his father had pulled him inside. It was a human match, and it was brutal. It was brutal, and safe, and protected.

Icarean wrestling was not safe, and it was not protected. It was illegal, and the only form of protection was your family, the people who stood by you. There were a number of gang members here, too. The audience was to watch three matches, and then proceed to the roof to watch the race.

The first thing that struck Zuko was the noise. There was a constant throb of it, like a pulse, a terrible roar that felt like metal grinding. He shuddered as he watched the empty square, a television making white noise as it prepared for the match.

The Cockerel stepped onto the stage. He was, as mentioned, a large and radiant man. His hair shone a bright crimson beneath the lights, and his wings were even bigger than- than anyone’s. Their tips were painted a bright silver, and his mouth had been painted green.

He smiled and turned his head toward the crowd, winking. He had an attitude, and three broken fingers. His face had been covered in an off foundation, and he looked slightly sickly. It forced one to remember that he was young, 23 years old or so Toph said, and that he was apparently quite shy off stage. Their loyalties rested on him for now.

“Oh boy,” Toph hissed into Zuko’s ear, “the Hook is on next!”

And his train of thought derailed. The moment the boy walked onto the stage, Zuko was turned to stone in his seat, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He gripped the seat beneath him, watching as the boy- the boy that had been _his_ , once- turned towards the crowd.

All at once it made sense. The things Jet did, the money, the injuries. Oh, the _injuries_. Unlike the Cockerel, Jet wore his wounds open and proud. His eye was a vibrant purple, and his mouth was red with blood. He lifted his fists and laughed, the same laugh that Zuko knew, channelling deep beneath the skin. Despite it, Zuko felt it everywhere. Despite himself, he felt that laugh in his chest, in his stomach.

Jet was tiny compared to the Cockerel. He was the same height, but the muscle was made up of lean, wiry substance that made him look absolutely spindly. His broken ribs stuck out beneath his skin. Even with all the tragedy of it, his gaze was steady as he assessed the other boy, whose wings were tense and ruffled. Jet turned to the crowd and let out an arrogant whoop of laughter. He got into position on the mat.

There were no rules in Icarean wrestling. There was no too rough, just fists and teeth and blood.

The gun went off and the two boys almost seemed to dance around each other. Jet held his fists up in front of his face, bloody and broken from long before this event.

Then the Cockerel burst forward, a mess of flapping wings and flying fists. Jet ducked almost every one of them and shoved his way forward, driving a knee into the Cockerel’s solar plexus. The man drove his elbow down on Jet’s skull, a hiss spurting between Jet’s teeth.

Underneath the seedy lighting, Jet looked like a creature from Hell. In three minutes, the Cockerel had made a scrape on Jet’s forehead that now oozed a steady stream of blood. On the television screen his eyes were bloodshot but steadfast as he pushed forward again and again, never tiring. That was how he succeeded, he didn’t let himself be caught. The Cockerel shoved a bloodied fist into Jet’s mouth, who bit down on the man’s knuckles. Blood was everywhere on the mat, in spurts and gushes. Jet didn’t wipe the blood away from his eye, just tugged his hair and pressed it into the injury like a makeshift bandage. Zuko’s stomach twisted.

“C’mon, Jet,” he whispered, and Jet used his wings to rise ten inches off the ground and send himself flying into his opponent. They fell to the ground in a mess of anger and desperation, each of them fighting for fun or for people back home. Jet’s fingers around the other man’s throat, the Cockerel shoved his wings into the mat. Jet yelled out, bloody spittle dotting his chin.

He kicked the Cockerel’s wings, heels digging into the soft inside feathers. The Cockerel went back to the ground, and Jet pressed his knees into his feathers. As the clock ticked down, the man cried in agony.

Jet got to his feet, and his eyes looked almost lupine in the night. People cheered his name, threw flowers onto the stage, but he just stared into the camera. On the flickering screen he looked like a crime scene, his hair gone pitch black with blood, his chin dotted with luminescent red. The clouds on his face parted, and his eyebrows relaxed, his mouth falling slack. Then he turned and walked offstage.

Before he could process anything, Zuko was shoving through crowds of wings, ducking around busy torsos. The arena was in a gritty and raw building, and the stench of blood and sweat went rank against his nose. With a cough, he found the changing rooms. There were no guards, no nothing, so he walked right on in.

Jet didn’t look up at him. He was slumped against the bench, running a wet towel over his injuries. He didn’t look too invested, as he moved the towel lazily, watched it turn darj with his blood.

“Jet,” Zuko choked from across the change rooms. In that moment he saw a number of things. One: Jet freezing, his muscles going tense, tugging at the lean flesh of his shoulders. His feathers going firm.

But there was also Two, and that was Jet standing to his feet and the muscles in his face turning soft. Zuko’s name hung impossible in Jet’s mouth, so he didn’t even try. His mouth tried around the word, but his vocal cords betrayed him.

Zuko pushed forward and crashed his mouth into Jet’s. With a muffled whimper from one or both of them, he wrapped his arms around Jet’s shoulders, felt the bare skin that he knew so well. For a moment they were still, mouths unmoving, everything inside them turned into stone and ash. But then Jet wrapped his arms around Zuko’s waist and pressed forward, his entire body against Zuko’s. He tasted like blood and salt, and Zuko could feel his own face going wet.

But Jet didn’t pull away, he never pulled away, just melted into the body of the one who he had loved and let go. His teeth ached, his feathers buzzed raw with energy. A sob erupted from the base of Jet’s chest, but then he was shoving his tongue into Zuko’s mouth to hide it. His fingers pressed into Zuko’s waist, and everything was _heat and burning and being burned and_ -

The door opened, and Jet yanked away, staring at the intruder with wide eyes. His chest heaved with effort, his feathers fluttering manically, his fingers still wrapped around a bunch of Zuko’s shirt. “Right. I’m on,” he gasped, and his breaths were like gravel at the bottom of a bucket.

Then he let go, and passed across the room, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. Before he disappeared, he looked at Zuko and smiled.

Blood coated Zuko’s face in a thick dark smear. Rich and scarlet, he turned to face his reflection. He reached up and brushed his fingers over the red bruising of his lips, the way they seemed to ache with longing. His fingers slid up over the dry, dead scar, then the wet red stain. He dragged his hand, smearing it across his cheek.

 

The race was about to begin, and the crowd now stepped onto the street. Zuko strained to see the shapes of Jet and the other winner, a boy of 15 years with thick blonde hair. His eyes were exaggerated with neon blue contacts. His teeth were filed into points, but Jet was not afraid. Even when the boy had grabbed a fistful of soft, delicate feathers and tore them out. Jet had screamed, and kicked the boy in the groin. His name was Joseph the Swan. His white hair suited the name, as well as his feathers, streaked with red.

The two competitors were taken to the spire of Magdalene, a large building on the far end of the city. Distant as it was, its point was visible from anywhere in the city, so sharp it seemed to pierce the sky. Two dots were the only sign of Jet and the Swan. The two of them were still, and then they were flying.

The dots moved across the sky like the eagles Zuko had read about, actual birds. He’d seen videos with elegant, arched wings brushing the sky. The white flash of the Swan’s wings gave him away, and he muffled a yell as the two of them came closer. It took five minutes to cross the city, but by the time their shapes were obvious, the Swan was driving his shoulder into the other boy. With a triumphant shriek Jet’s shoulder burst against a skyscraper and he turned, twisting in the other boy’s grip. Red and white and brown tore through the sky, and neither of them reached the finish line. Whatever it was, testosterone or anger or anything, it froze them in place.

Jet shoved his fingers into the other boy’s eyes, struggling against his grasp, flinching away from the thick wings that tore towards him. The Swan pushed and pushed and pushed until Jet was pressed against a building, flapping for dear life and struggling for purchase. From the ground, Zuko watched with the memory of that mouth on his. His heart beat in his throat.

The two shot off into the air, and there was barely any distinguishing who was who. But everyone knew that it was Jet who fell. With a perfectly placed fist, a shape hurtled from the sky, a comet, a curse, driving towards the earth. It was poetic, the way his wings curled around him like a shelter. The wind against his wings turned him over, and somewhere in the city he collided with the concrete.

 

Sirens broke the city as they screamed through the streets, and Zuko watched from a staircase as they piled the crumpled Icarean into an ambulance. Humans touched him and from afar Zuko could see the way his face was so dark he was almost unrecognisable, his eyes half-open. He looked dead, and the thought alone sent Zuko pale. He turned to the side and saw Katara, paler than usual. She was trembling. “Jet,” she whispered, “ _Jet_.”

“You know him,” Zuko felt a shock of understanding.

“Knew. I knew him.” She pulled her jacket closer around her. “A long time ago.”

Zuko wondered how long ‘a long time’ was. He heard the sirens blaring and he watched the ambulance disappear towards the Ezekiel Hospital. He gulped, and stepped away from Katara, and went home.

He shoved everything he owned into a suitcase. His clothes, his binders, his medical books. He tried to be slow, to draw it out, but before he could pull himself together he was shoving everything unfolded. Only the books were treated with care. Tears started to leak from his eyes and before he knew it he was sobbing into the dejected suitcase. His uncle was downstairs, and so Zuko let himself weep all of it away. His heart burned in his throat, and his fists gripped the blankets tightly.

He sank to his knees and pressed his face into the soft red blankets of another life. As he wept, he thought about swapping one life for another. How easy was it, to walk away? Even as he felt the absence of his uncle in his chest, he felt that sweet relief of decision.

Eventually the sobs died down and he reached for a denim jacket his uncle had bought him. It was beautiful, the back marked with a hole for his wings. Turning towards the mirror in the bedroom, he pulled it over his wings. “Zuko, Freedom Fighter,” he whispered.

“Zuko? Zuko, I’ve been calling you for the past-” The door opened and Iroh stood there. He was smiling, but the edge of it twitched. In the mirror, Zuko saw the man’s gaze go from him, to the suitcase. He was silent, which was worse.

“Please don’t lecture me.”

“Where are you going?” Iroh asked, and crossed the room. His gaze lingered on the trace of blood on Zuko’s forehead. “I hope you’re not about to do something foolish.”

Zuko sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’m doing what I have to do.” He closed his eyes and turned away. “My entire life, I’ve been looking for a place to belong. And my entire life I never got that, but…I realise it, now.” He took a sharp breath. “I belong where I’m needed.”

“Is it that Jet boy?”

Part of the misery vanished, replaced by embarrassment. His eyes snapped open and he stepped away. Yes, this was normal. “What do you mean! How do you know about him?”

Iroh laughed a little, and pulled Zuko into a tight, breathless hug. “I have heard you say his name, in your sleep.” Then he paused, his hug turning even more solid. “I trust you. I trust you’ll visit?”

“Of course, Uncle.”

 

Jet looked tiny in the hospital bed, drowned in swathes of plastic white. The bruises under his eyes made him look like some pagan god, like someone who had been given up by time and left to the cornerstones of Christian temples. He was sleeping on his wings. When Zuko sat down on the waiting room chair, he noted that not a soul had come to visit Jet in the space before him. Everything was quiet.

Someone dashed past on a stretcher, and Zuko saw a wing sliding out from beneath the sheet, dragging along the ground. Jet’s breath hitched in his sleep, his mouth parting. When his eyes opened, they were black as pitch. His breathing dragged inside his throat. “Zuko.” He held out his arms, and Zuko stepped closer. Taking Jet’s hand, he could feel that the skin was cold to the touch.

“I’m here, Jet.”

Jet smiled, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept since Zuko had left. “I know. Thank you.”

Zuko’s gaze slipped up towards the wings. They looked hideously burned, the membrane crushed from his fall. They’d saved him, wrapped him tightly and smashed into the ground. He’d fallen hard enough to leave a hole.

“They’re amputating them,” Jet whispered, looking away. He closed his eyes and didn’t pretend to smile, or maybe he just failed. “I’m losing my wings.”

Zuko sat down on the bed beside him, and when Jet made room he looked smaller than ever, shadowed cheeks and slices and gashes marring his beauty. He looked worse than he had in the changing rooms. Zuko just rested a hand on his shoulder, fingers spreading as much heat as he could manage. Jet smiled, and pressed Zuko’s knuckles to his mouth. But then he paused, eyes widening. He’d spotted the suitcase, bursting with clothes.

“No!” he tried to whisper, “No, you can’t do that for me. I won’t let you destroy your life for me.”

Zuko shut him up by kissing him. Effortless, he kissed Jet softly and tenderly, a low thrum in his chest for everything he’d missed. Crying hadn’t rid him of Jet in the slightest, and here he came back. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he whispered.

 

After the surgery, Jet staggered out on feet unbalanced without his wings. He didn’t look as graceful as Zuko remembered, staring at the ground and inching forward place by place. Zuko moved forward and wrapped one of Jet’s arms around his shoulders. He winced in distorted agony, for it had to be agony that he felt somewhere inside him, some kind of harsh mist that swallowed him whole.

Jet closed his eyes, head lolling forward. “I have something for you,” he muttered, and pulled from his pocket a single, perfect feather. The others would be used for some ungodly purpose like pillows or displays. But this wasn’t a primary, this wasn’t a scapular. No, it was a covert, the softest kind. Blue veins crossed the surface of the wispy feather strands. “So I’m with you wherever you go. So you never feel like you have to find me.”

Zuko took it, trembling. He slid it into the pocket of his jacket, an Icarean button fastening it closed. He’d need that, with the wind. Although it was useless, even though he knew he’d search for Jet whenever, he knew that he needed it. It was all Jet had left of the once mighty beauties. He looked bare, and small without them.

Jet pressed closer suddenly, but when Zuko closed his eyes he didn’t feel his mouth. No, Jet wrapped his arms around Zuko’s waist, and he pressed his face to the soft skin of Zuko’s neck. His breath made goosebumps, but the two of them were still. His body seemed to shake, knuckles gripping Zuko’s shirt. But when he pulled back he was smiling. He took Zuko’s hand and led him with great difficulty to the parking lot.

The two of them stopped when they reached the tarmac, and Jet fell silent. Zuko was cradling the suitcase close to his chest, and he could feel the feather burning into his side. As soon as they escaped the great metal cage, Zuko felt a wave of nothing in his chest. What was he doing? Was he sure? When he looked at Jet he knew he was sure. And when he thought of Nathaniel, and Ada.

“You’re choosing me over your uncle,” Jet muttered, and once again it seemed like he was trying to change it, like he was trying to make himself seem unbearable.

“No. I’m choosing you over everything.” Zuko smiled, and shrugged. “Like you chose me.”

Jet blushed. “I did choose you, didn’t I?” He crossed his arms and looked away. “I didn’t realise I was that obvious.”

Zuko took his hand, and glanced down at Jet’s feet smouldering against the ground. “I know you,” he said, and took a deep breath. “And I know where I’m needed.”

The End


End file.
